


but the universe didn't return your innocence

by Breeze11



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Alright here we go, Constructive Criticism Welcome, First AO3 fic, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, IM PROUD OF THIS, More tags will be added as the story progresses, hermitcraft season six because why not, i started writing this a long time ago, no beta we die wishing l'manburg didn't, no idea if this is a good idea, oh god im scared to upload this, pls no hate :), tagging is tricky, uploads will not be consistent but will happen eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:21:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breeze11/pseuds/Breeze11
Summary: But maybe they deserved it. Maybe this realm didn’t create the monsters, it just collected them, bringing them all together, all the misfits and trouble-makers and criminals and murderers all bundled up in one place for them to die out like they deserved. Like he deserved. Because no matter how he tried to distinguish himself from them, they were all the same.
Relationships: None
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	but the universe didn't return your innocence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Really excited for this fic, it's my first time posting here so it may be a bit scuffed. Sorry about that. Advice is greatly appreciated, however I don't really want to be torn to shreds in the comments, thank you very much. I really enjoyed writing this, so the future for this story is looking bright.

An arrow soared past his shoulder as he sprinted through the forest, his own bow in hand.

He would have to time the shot flawlessly. Any less than perfection and he would be dead at their feet in seconds. They were gaining ground against him, and he was using everything he had left just to keep ahead. His body was exhausted, the physical strain of running for so long finally catching up to him.

He quickly ducked behind the closest trunk of a tree to avoid another arrow, giving himself a single moment to breathe before immediately darting back out, locking eyes for only a brief second with his opponent before his last arrow left his worn bow, before he was running once more, the grunt of pain from behind him only confirming that he had hit his target. But he knew he couldn’t stop, there could be more of them, they always seemed to be in groups, not living, but surviving.

Except him. He always fought alone.

He could hear them coming, their pounding footsteps much heavier than his own. He had taught himself to be quiet, to never make a sound even when there was nothing but silence, when the whole world seemed to be sleeping. Sound meant pain, meant discovery. So he never let his guard down, always on alert and ready to run at a single moment's notice.

He was thankful that he was small, something he had cursed in his old world. His oppositions might have had the upper hand on strength, but he excelled at moving fast, never letting them catch him. And as he moved faster and faster, pushing himself far beyond his limits, he heard the footsteps growing fainter, most likely stopping to check on their ally. There would be no incentive to continue hunting him anyway - he was small and alone, it wouldn’t be worth their time to track him down.

But he kept running, because people were unreliable, and his trust in anyone had long since been fractured and broken.

His body was aching all over, almost screaming at him to stop, even for just a second, but he didn’t, he couldn’t. The fear he had suppressed in order to get away was rising to the surface at an alarming rate, and it only pushed him further, to go faster, to do anything to get away from people. From the monsters this world had forced them to become.

+++++++++++

After what felt like hours, the sun now dancing through the leaves in stunning, warm colours, he reached his destination - a small clearing in what would otherwise be a thick and tangled jungle of corrupted trees, the only sign of inhabitants a small fire pit with now-cold coals. He let out a small sigh of relief (but not ever letting his guard down), and walked tiredly over to a small cluster of purple-tainted leaves at the far end of his makeshift home. Almost all the natural resources in the godforsaken realm had purple corruption seeping into their very being, making most crafting and building impossible.

Shifting the leaves over, his eyes were met with the small bundle of supplies that he didn’t carry around with him, hidden away from prying eyes if his small glade was ever stumbled across.

There wasn’t much there, it was almost sad to look at what several months of work had produced. He had a few precious seeds tucked away in one corner, along with a flint and steel to light his fire, which had taken many long weeks to create, and many nights without warmth. It was dangerous to have an open fire when it’s smoke could easily give you away, however the need for light was critical in surviving the long nights, keeping mobs mostly at bay until the morning came, where they would creep back to whatever hellhole they came from. The densely packed trees on all sides of him were also useful in hiding the smoke, although he could never rely on them completely.

There was a little bit of wheat wrapped in a thin line of wool, his last food source and the reason he went out hunting that day, and a small object wrapped in thin layers of wool.

He lifted it out of the hole and rubbed his fingers over the small package, the only remaining thing from his home, the only thing that had stayed with him when he was sent away. His most treasured possession in the hellish world, always reminding him of fun days and good times, where nothing was ever really wrong, and he had people that loved him, that protected him. Family.

However, he couldn't reminiscence over the past forever. He set it back down and turned to his pack. Opening it, he looked with misery at the two pieces of pork he had spent the entire day retrieving. Food was a precious resource to all that lived in the world, which meant it was also very scarce. He had only been able to find one pig, less than the three he had found two days prior, but at least it was something. He had tried growing wheat with some of his seeds, but it had taken less than a day for him to come back and find them to be stolen, and now he only had a few left, too little to risk losing them as well.

He looked towards the sky, noting that the sun was now peeking from behind the brush surrounding him and leveling with the horizon, creating colourful rays as it did, lighting up the sky one final time before disappearing for the day. Nodding to himself once, he picked up his bed, the flint and steel and his dwindling food supplies, leaving his pack and its contents inside the small hole. There was no point covering it back up now that he was there to inhabit the area.

He walked back over to the coals of his campfire, set down his supplies and then got up once more to find some sticks. Of all the resources in the world, at least sticks were easy to come by, strewn around the forest floor by the trees towering above them. The corruption buried just underneath the bark didn’t matter when it came to burning them, and for that he was grateful. As he collected them, he kept most of his attention on the surrounding forest, not wanting to be snuck up on and attacked for the second time that day. Once he had collected enough, he returned to the centre of the clearing.

He set the twigs up in a pyramid shape over the coals before placing the small amount of kindling he had found in the centre. He grabbed the flint and steel and struck them against each other, something he had gotten good at in the months prior. After only a few strikes, a spark flung from the iron and into the kindling, starting a small flame in the centre, which  
quickly grew as it found the dry sticks just above it.

He sat in front of the fire, watching it grow with a content look on his face. This was one of the only things that could bring a smile to his face, even if it was only a second. It disappeared as he focused back on the current task, picking up the pork pieces and placing them around the edges of the now blazing fire. Taking a quick look around once more, he went back over to the hole, grabbed his crafting table from the pack - which had taken a painstaking amount of time to find the wood for - and crafted the remaining wheat in his hand into bread, something edible that could quell his grumbling stomach. He didn’t eat it, however, storing it away in his pack for the next day, when he would inevitably have to go back out and find more food.

As the sky got darker around him, and the woods became more and more dangerous, he stared into the heart of the fire, remembering times from long ago when he didn’t have to create his own warmth, when he had a home and all the supplies he could ever need, when he was never hungry and never fearing for his life like he had to every day. He remembered a time when he didn’t have to be alone, when he had friends to surround him and make him feel wanted, when he had a family.

The pain of old friends from long ago still haunted him, even after several long and hard months. The family he had created with them, the memories of good times now long gone, were always painful. His last few weeks with them had been filled with overwhelming feelings of horror and dread, the knowledge he couldn’t change his own actions drowning him in sadness and resentment for his own body. And the voice.

But it didn’t matter anymore. Here, the only thing that mattered was survival, and he couldn’t be distracted by experiences he could never get back, friends he would never see again. But even as he moved closer to the small source of warmth, trying desperately to pay attention to his surroundings like he knew he should have been, tears leaked out of his eyes, and he wished to be back home again.

+++++++++++

The sound of pounding footsteps broke through the calm peace of his mind, abruptly waking him from a night full of distant memories. He opened his bleary eyes, still too out of it to register what the footsteps really meant. And then he was up, cursing himself for falling into a deeper sleep than usual. He quickly stamped out the remains of his small fire and snatched the pieces of cold pork that he had forgotten to eat the night prior, before sprinting over to his little hole at the side of the clearing. He grabbed out his pack, making sure to stuff all his loose things into it, and then he was off, only glancing back once to confirm what he already knew: someone had found him.

He sprinted through the trees, not sticking around to find out how many more would appear. He knew he could never go back - now that his clearing had been found, the place that he had lived in for almost a full month would be unusable, and he would have to find a new home. If they had spotted him, going back would be suicide. A lone figure with no one to watch his back, no backup if things went south, no way out.

So he ran, he ran far into the night. He couldn’t have slept for long, the moon was only half-way through the sky, meaning there was still half a night of danger and fear left until the sun broke through the trees again, and pushed the mobs to retreat back to wherever they came from. He cursed out loud for not having a sword, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The trees around him swayed with the light wind as if they were taunting him, the light purplish tint now seeming to glow in the dim light of the moon.

He heard the groans of the undead echoing from somewhere within the trees, only pushing him to move faster. Without a weapon, he was defenceless and vulnerable, open to attacks from both the creatures of the night and the monsters this realm had created, monsters like him, who had to kill and steal and fight and run just to survive.

But maybe they deserved it. Maybe this realm didn’t create the monsters, it just collected them, bringing them all together, all the misfits and trouble-makers and criminals and murderers all bundled up in one place for them to die out like they deserved. Like he deserved. Because no matter how he tried to distinguish himself from them, they were all the same.

They were the unwanted creatures, ones that had become monsters of their own creations and deserved to be punished, deserved to be banned from their home worlds and shoved into the Burning Realm, left to die out as they should, hunted and scared and breaking apart.

Because once you died there was no return.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters soon?


End file.
